


Growing Pains

by karanguni



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-06
Updated: 2008-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/pseuds/karanguni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing into his responsibility as a Turk was not automatic for Tseng; some things you have to be trained how to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing Pains

It was competition – and wasn't that typical of Shinra. In absence of any external challenge, its sole mode of entertainment seemed to be to watch its internal divisions rip each other to pieces. Nothing ever changed; Veld'd been around twenty, maybe twenty-five years by the time he ended up at that board meeting, watching with blasé disinterest as a young man – bastard son of the President – stepped up to fill in a new seat at the Directors' table.

'Deusericus,' the man introduced himself. 'Lazard Deusericus. I will be serving as the Head of SOLDIER from today onwards. I look forward to working with you all,' and with that neat, smoothly delivered lie, sat and crossed his hands and waited for the dice to fall.

The President stood and uttered a few choice lines and then spread out the budget – a few million gil moving back and forth, all of it channelling into Hojo's new laboratory experiment turned war machine. Heidegger didn't look happy. Scarlett looked bored. All of it was a cover, and Deusericus would do well to watch his back.

There was no mention of _budget_ when it came to Administrative Research; that was the game that the President played to make sure that the guards watched the guards. When the meeting was dismissed, Veld walked straight past Deusericus without so much as extending a hand in greeting. He headed for the elevators, and closed the doors of his in Lazard's face when the other man made to enter with him.

Competition – Shinra didn't need to tell Veld in so many words that the Turks were becoming too every day, too internal, too specific in their use. Shinra was all about pride. Display. Strutting. They employed the right Director for their cause, then – Veld'd seen the way Deusericus folded his gloved fingers and played with the edges of his spectacles. Father and bastard (son), after all.

'Sir,' Tseng said curtly when Veld walked into the Administrative Research office.

'A word of advice, Tseng,' Veld said, directly, as he accepted the files Tseng proffered him. Reaching his table, he tossed them down and turned. 'It's high time you learned to grow out of your naivety.'

'Sir?' Tseng intoned, keeping his face as blank as he'd been taught. Little secret that he wasn't fully confident in his skills. Veld'd watched Tseng since he picked the boy up off the filthy streets in Sector Six. Now he read every line off of the young man's face like it was a book.

Veld tucked his hands into his pockets. 'You've seen Deusericus around,' he said. 'What do you think?'

'He's not what he appears,' Tseng replied, his voice taking on the flat tones of report. 'Rumour puts him as the President's first and bastard son. His rise in the ranks is supporting evidence of it. From what we've been able to gather he's friendly with the recruits and adroit with the executives. All-rounded and young.'

'That's not what you think,' Veld stated. 'That's what you know.'

There was a pause. 'I think he's a good man, sir.'

'A good man?' Veld asked, taking on rhetoric. He leaned against his chair and watched Tseng carefully. Tseng kept his gaze a point to the side. 'In Shinra?'

'It's a possibility,' Tseng posited.

'You're a Turk, and the first opinion you offer me about a newly-made executive is that he's a _good man_ ,' Veld restated. His voice was free from intonation; amazing how he managed to make it sound accusatory nonetheless.

'We often assume the worst about men, sir,' Tseng returned. 'But I've spoken to Lazard on several occasions. Insofar as I've been able to gather, he's a personable individual, even if his history begs him to act aggressively, politically speaking.'

Veld exhaled through his nose. 'I wonder, Tseng,' he said, 'if I made a mistake putting you out in the field. Stop,' he said, holding up a hand before objections could be made. 'I know. I'm too old. Reno is unreliable. Rude would need to be forced to speak. They're men's men. You're not. I've trained you, specifically, for a purpose that I now think you patently unsuited for.'

Tseng flinched without being able to help himself. 'Sir.'

'There,' Veld pointed out. 'It's written all over your face. You snap necks beautifully, Tseng. But you can't see what's in front of your damned nose. Come here.' The man gestured Tseng into a seat. When the younger Turk seated himself, Veld activated the system's panel on his desk, and drew up a few files. 'You've spoken to Deusericus. You think he's a good man. You also know his circumstances –' Veld opened up the SOLDIER profile. 'Funded by Hojo. Genetic development and specialised human engineering. Bad blood. What do you think his intentions really are, Tseng?'

Tseng's eyes were flat. 'Do you suppose he wants to take over the company, sir,' he uttered, keeping his voice on the line of civility. 'That his heritage makes it necessary for him to aspire to rise in order to avenge his disinheritance?'

'Yes,' Veld said, simply. 'But that's not the worst you can manage, I'm sure. You're looking at the facts as if they're numbers on a page. They're not. They're variables.'

'SOLDIER is an aggressive force,' Tseng said.

'Variables change, and affect the system in which they're integrated to.'

'Genetically modified via Hojo's procedures, they are potentially super-human in terms of strength, reflexes, constitution and co-ordination,' Tseng continued.

'A system involves parts. None of which are discrete in nature, no matter their build and development.'

'SOLDIERS will be potentially more dedicated to Shinra than their Army counterparts,' Tseng forced out. 'And therefore more deeply involved with internal politics. Lazard –'

'Deusericus,' Veld said.

'Deusericus may use them as a point of contention, should any of them rise to significant status. There are several already poised to become so. Sephiroth, Hewley, Rhapsodos.' Tseng said.

'And what becomes of the Turks, Tseng?' Veld asked, leaning back at last. Tseng felt air return to his lungs. 'What becomes of the poorly equipped, marginally trained and physically deficient guard?'

Tseng was silent.

Veld nodded at the door. 'Deusericus is not your friend. He is not your acquaintance, he is not your confidant. He is your age, and smarter than you are, even if he possesses none of the training that would keep him alive outside of Midgar. He doesn't need to – he has at his fingertips the rational products of Hojo's genius, and the clout of blackmail and a history that needs reckoning with. He is not a _good_ man, Tseng. Neither am I, nor are you.'

Tseng looked up at his mentor. 'Sir,' he said, again.

'How old are you this year, Tseng?' Veld asked.

'Nineteen, sir,' Tseng replied.

'Nineteen, and how many years Shinra?'

'Six, sir.'

'God, six,' Veld sighed. 'Six and you still hold on to concepts like honour. Wutai has strong customs, I'll give them that.'

'Perhaps it was the man who trained me, sir,' Tseng offered, and there was a note of sarcasm in his voice.

'Oh?' Veld said, looking up. 'You'll say many things about me when I'm gone, Tseng, but be sure of one thing. You will _not_ say that I brought you up to be a _good_ man.'

'That's not for you to decide, sir,' Tseng said. 'If there is nothing more?'

'At least I gave you some backbone,' Veld smiled. 'No. There is nothing more. You have patrol duty. Sector Eight.'

'Yes, sir.'

'It'll be interesting.'

'Will it be, sir?'

At two in the morning, Tseng found himself with his face against concrete. He came up, wiping blood from his mouth, and stood very still. 'You're SOLDIER,' he addressed the man who'd shoved him down. 'Last I recall, SOLDIER was part of Shinra.' The company in question was a full hundred feet behind them; they could both still see the ever-lit lobby and the insignia on the sliding doors. The Tower loomed up above up, blocking out the night.

'And the Turks are too,' the SOLDIER said. 'And all you've ever acted like is superior and fucking holier-than-thou.' The Mako sheen in the man's eyes was bright and like nothing human. 'You could treat this as a nice wake-up call.' He stepped closer, cracking his knuckles.

'This is Turk turf,' Tseng said, coolly.

'And you're in my god damned way,' the SOLDIER replied, smiling. Tseng thought he recognised the man, in that instant. An old face from old memories: illegal trading done in one of the accounting departments. A small, regular job for the Turks. Tseng didn't recall what'd happened to him afterwards. Some flash of intuition suggested that the man had been offered choices. Tseng wondered what alternative would've had a man choosing to become one of Hojo's willing _patients_.

Moving pre-emptively, Tseng managed to break the man's left ankle before the man could break his face, but pain didn't seem to be a factor to the SOLDIER. What would've had any other person down and out had the SOLDIER moving faster. More deliberate. More lethal. Tseng rolled with his punches, and got off with a bruised collarbone instead of a shattered neck.

'Pretty little Turk,' the SOLDIER said, placing pressure on his injured foot like he couldn't feel pain. He grabbed Tseng by the hair and dragged his face close. 'What else do you fuck around doing up there with your nice little suits and shiny shoes?' He yanked Tseng's tie loose, and shook it around. 'Silk,' he grinned. 'Very nice.'

Tseng spat in his face and punched the man's nose in.

He was in the hospital when he woke up the next morning. _Hospital_ being a generic term; fact of the matter was that no Shinra case was allowed off Shinra grounds. Where he _was_ was the Turk infirmary, a glorified level dedicated to treating whatever got dragged in the next morning. They'd seen a few cases in their time. Veld kept the payroll of all the doctors who worked there on the Administrative Research tab.

'Your right arm suffered a clean break,' a voice said from Tseng's side. Tseng didn't have enough time to fully orientate himself before a cup of ice was put in his hands. 'Suck on a chip,' Veld said. 'It's better than choking on water. You wouldn't want to lose any more of your depleted dignity.'

Tseng took a piece of ice into his mouth. His tongue felt flat, dry, heavy. It could've been that which forced him into silence, or it could've been the sense of disappointment that hung in the air. Veld was a hard master. Who didn't know that?

'I'm impressed,' the Director said. He sounded anything but. 'You managed to get off without needing reconstructive surgery.'

Tseng said nothing.

'You're off of field duty for two months. Recuperation will be on my schedule, not yours. There'll be no permanent damage. I've let them use materia to seal the fracture. You can let your bones do the rest of the knitting themselves. I regret to inform you that the wound will not scar.'

Tseng said nothing.

Veld said nothing as well. The man got up, and left without another word.

Tseng waited a full minute before he flung the cup on the floor, ice shattering and spilling everywhere. He chanced getting up to pick the pieces up from the floor, and had to sit for thirty minutes afterwards fighting cramps and the rise of bile at the back of his throat. Tseng slept through the rest of the day, and pushed all spikes of pain viciously aside every time it threatened to wake him. Heal. Recuperate. Get back on his god damned fucking feet.

When he woke, the clock on the far wall informed him that it was nine o'clock in the evening. No windows in this part of Shinra; there was probably company policy forbidding it. Tseng opened his eyes, but did not move. Took stock: there was an ache in his ribs. Expected. Numbness in his arms. Expected; he'd tell the attendants to stop the drip of anaesthesia. Fatigue. Expected.

He let his mind shift, sift and settle. When he felt prepared, Tseng swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

Hojo was at the door.

Tseng did not blink. 'Sir,' he said, his politeness a defensive barrier and an offensive vocalisation.

'Ah,' Hojo murmured, nodding at him. 'You're awake, hm?'

Tseng did not grace the question with a complementary rhetorical answer. He nodded, and turned slightly to reach for the blazer that had been hung on the chair next to his bed. It kept the scientist in his view, and afforded the man the barest of the necessary respect.

'I heard of your altercation,' Hojo informed him. 'I must say that I was very impressed.' And here the interest was not feigned, nor meant in disdain. Tseng rather preferred Veld's. He took up his blazer, and then the shirt that was underneath it.

'Thank you, sir,' he said, modulating his voice. Touching the tails of his shirt, Tseng said, 'I must change.'

'Go ahead,' Hojo nodded his permission. Tseng had to fight to keep his face blank. He stripped off the scrubs that the attendants had put him in, and feigned ignorance of Hojo's gaze. The scientist was evaluating him: the mass of his body, the stretch of his muscles, the naked human form. Tseng slipped his left arm through the shirt and buttoned it as best as he was able to. He bent while pulling on his slacks, and gave no sign of discomfort.

Hojo laughed.

Tseng zipped his pants and suffered tightening his belt in silence.

'You're a fine example of a Turk,' Hojo observed casually as Tseng attempted the tie. It was not a good attempt. 'Let me help you with that.'

'No need, sir,' Tseng said.

'Would you want Veld to see you dishevelled?' Hojo inquired as he came closer. He was a better political player than Tseng was. The Turk stood still as the scientist undid the feeble half-in-hand that he'd managed and retied it into a Windsor. The silence in the room was absolute. Hojo seemed not to notice. 'Veld's training is notoriously harsh, I hear. A waste, considering how it's all hidden beneath the uniform.'

'We are not an aggressive force, sir,' Tseng was obliged to mention.

'No,' Hojo agreed, pulling the length of Tseng's tie outwards, his fingers brushing the underside of Tseng's throat as they went. 'But you are a potent administrative one, you Turks. Your job scope is rather wide, isn't it? If it encompasses all the various departments that make up Shinra.'

'We manage,' Tseng said. 'Sir.'

'I imagine that, after the example you set last night, Veld must be considering how the Turks might manage any difficulties with SOLDIER,' Hojo mentioned. He finished with the knot, and pulled it up against Tseng's neck. When he felt it touch Tseng's collar, he tightened it a further notch, then stepped back. 'I imagine going up against a Mako-enhanced man must've been quite a challenge?'

'As you say, sir.' Tseng took a full step back, and slipped his blazer over his shoulders. It hung loose over his right arm, and left him as vulnerable as he felt.

Hojo reached into the pocket of his laboratory coat. 'There's a distinct disadvantage to the SOLDIER programme, of course. Physical training requires time, yes, but not quite _so_ much time as the human body takes to adapt to the injection of Mako into the genetic system. Our turnover rate is dramatically slow, and the possibility of gene rejection is always present. A permanent alteration of any system has those side effects, of course. And the fact of the matter is that I doubt that we'd need such brute force as SOLDIER presents to us at all times, hm?'

When he withdrew two slim glass syringes of what seemed to be refined Mako, Tseng knew that he ought to move. Speak, act, deflect. One of the above, or all three. He did nothing.

'These are short-term Mako accelerators,' Hojo explained upon seeing the look on Tseng's face. 'Curious, are you? You've good cause. Think of these as liquid material: they enhance the capabilities of any human, amplifying and drawing from pre-existing sources of energy – lipid deposits, spare glycerine stores, existing simple carbohydrate excesses in the bloodstream – instead of relying on a gene structure to create the necessary excesses. Ingenious, isn't it?' The scientist chuckled. 'It is. Take them.'

'Sir,' Tseng objected.

'Would you like me to make that an order, Turk?' the Director of the Science department asked. 'I'm not asking you to use them. Only to keep them on hand, and to inform me if you should apply them in the field.'

Tseng took the syringes. 'Are there any side-effects I should be aware of?'

'I think,' Hojo smiled as he moved to leave the room, 'that is a question I'd best be asking you. I will see you again.'

Tseng left the syringes at the bottom of his desk drawer, and tried to forget about them.

Veld had certain preferences set when it came to the training of his men: there were to be no modifiers. It didn't matter what form they took – Veld held natural training above any enhancements that the collective art of the Science department could bring to offer. His regime was difficult: you put on the suit and you took the suit out. To Kalm. To Gongaga. To the Icicle Region. To Wutai. You learnt how to swim in it, shoot in it, run it in, roll in it, you learnt to sleep and eat and shit in it and bring it back to Midgar in the same three pieces that it went out in.

The uniform gave you immunity, but it was an immunity you had to earn. Tseng'd seen – and helped – Veld in the act of bringing recruits who thought they could cheat death and the system out and shooting them in the forehead for attempted defection. Loyalty bought itself at high prices. It was a clean death, at the very least, cleaner than any other you'd get.

SOLDIER'd invented quite a few deaths for Turks that hadn't come on the roster before. Word had it that one of their men in Junon had been fished out of the sea, bloated from three days worth of floating after engaging in an assignment that had had her cataloguing the training detail of the SOLDIER base there. Veld said little about it. Revenge wasn't a card he played.

Tseng kept his opinions to himself just as he kept Hojo's _gift_.

Veld called him into his office on his first day of return to active duty, and nodded at a piece of paper on his desk when Tseng entered. 'Take it,' the Director said, and Tseng picked it up, left-handed. It was a listing of several of Tseng's old mission reports. 'You'll be useless to me for the next month and half while that mends,' Veld nodded at Tseng's right arm. 'I consider reflection an active duty, however.'

Tseng slipped the note into his jacket pocket. 'Sir?'

'You'd better learn to be a southpaw,' Veld continued. 'And I'd rather you learnt to crawl before you run, and write before you shoot.' He nodded at the spare desk that he kept in the office; once, that had been Tseng's place, up until the time Tseng'd put on the tie and assumed official duty. 'You can make me physical copies while working at that desk.'

Humiliation would have burned at Tseng if he didn't know how much he deserved the treatment. Tseng said nothing as he sat down and availed himself to the use of the paper and pens at the desk. The first sheet he covered had handwriting as horrible as the contents of the report; it'd been his first solo mission. Sixteen years old and stupid, he'd committed any number of mistakes. Reliving them was not pleasant.

Veld did not look his way until the sun pulled itself down past the Plate-line. By then, Tseng's hand was cramping, and his back was a stiff line. He forced himself to finish the fifth report. Veld came over and looked down at the pages. 'They're satisfactory,' Tseng's mentor allowed. 'Tomorrow, do them in Wutainese.'

Tseng gritted his teeth, and nodded. The next day, he brought a dictionary with him to the office.

'Do you need that?' Veld raised his eyebrows upon spotting it. 'I thought a man like you kept history close to hand.'

'I'm out of practice, sir,' Tseng replied.

'Oh, I see,' Veld smiled.

Tseng translated as fast as he was able to, but failed to finish a third report before Veld had finished with his day.

'Where are you going?' Veld asked as Tseng started pulling on his blazer. 'You have two more ahead of you.'

Tseng was there until two in the morning. Veld was outside in the lobby when he walked out of the office. 'Hm,' the older man said, passing Tseng a cup of coffee. Tseng drank, grateful and wary. 'How is your hand?'

Pulling the cup down, Tseng replied, 'Acceptably sore.'

Veld rewarded him with a snort of laughter. 'Well said. Downstairs, now.'

They took the elevator down to the underground shooting ranges in silence that bordered on companionable. It was an old silence, one they'd come out of the habit of falling into. Tseng felt young in Veld's presence when he felt old in anyone else's. He knew better than to speak, so Tseng simply followed when Veld led the way out into the range and called up the targets.

'Try,' was all the older Turk said, nodding at the targets as Tseng worked to arm his weapon without fumbling.

The first shot Tseng took had the recoil come back heavily enough across his shoulders that his injured arm throbbed. He shifted his stance for the second, and managed to hit the edge of the target. The third and forth were frustratingly mediocre.

Tseng almost flinched when he felt Veld's hand on his left shoulder. 'Turn yourself,' his mentor said, pushing Tseng's shoulders into the right form and cupping Tseng's left wrist with his left hand. Tseng tightened his jaw and forced his mind not to wander as he pulled the trigger a fifth time. It hit the target's left leg. Veld chuckled, close enough to Tseng's ear for Tseng to feel the warmth of his breath. 'Having problems?' his mentor asked.

'No,' Tseng replied. Veld did not step back. 'Sir,' Tseng said.

'Am I distracting you?' Veld asked.

'No Turk would be shooting with a man plastered to his back, _sir_ ,' Tseng said.

'Good,' Veld said, 'because neither would a Turk be shooting in a range with safety measures everywhere and at a target that doesn't shoot back. Fortunate for you, isn't it?'

Tseng took the sixth shot, and hit somewhere closer to the heart.

  
Veld kept him at languages and report writing and range practice and hours on the treadmill for four weeks; by the end of it Tseng was speaking in his would-be native language and taking the stairs up to the sixty-eighth floor every morning and writing adequately well with his off-hand. Reno made jokes about it, until Veld overheard him. The redhead found himself on the forty-ninth floor conducting equipment checks with Gen. Rhapsodos and Director Lazard, and returned oddly silent and wearing a tie the next day.

It felt, to Tseng, like living in limbo – he hadn't been in active duty for so long that he was beginning to miss the feel of a jungle less urban and more natural. He supposed that Veld considered that a problem, and had his suspicions confirmed when he was called in a week before the cast was to come off and informed that his next mission was to Wutai.

'Wutai, sir,' he echoed Veld.

'Did you think I was setting you on the language as creative punishment?' the Director asked.

'No, sir.'

'Good. Your brief if here. The objective is to shadow the team of engineers and PR staff who will be delivering potential plans for expansion in Mako energy in the region. They're proposing the construction of a new reactor near the main capital. Conveniently, an armed SOLDIER contingent will be following. As a "precautionary detail", or so Deusericus is claiming.'

'That,' Tseng said, fingers curling, 'will not be well received.'

'Which is where you come in,' Veld nodded. 'Best put away your materia and marksmanship for this one. Show me that I haven't spent half a decade training a bone breaker or trigger finger.'

'Any efforts may be potentially neutralised by SOLDIER,' Tseng brought up. The memory of the night at Sector Eight burned in his mind's eye. 'In which case –'

'In which case I still wouldn't care for a bone breaker,' Veld said, placidly, gazing up at Tseng. 'Nor for a trigger finger.'

'Sir,' Tseng said.

'One day you'll know the value of when not to use that term,' Veld informed him. He waved a dismissal. 'Go make your preparations.'

Preparations.

Tseng waited until the office had emptied out before he went into his private office and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. The syringes glowed a patient, potent green.

'I expected better.'

Veld's voice sliced through the darkness of the room.

Tseng's back stiffened, but he didn't pull away or attempt to make what he was doing seem like anything but what it was. 'Sir,' he said.

'And you discover when to use the deferential,' Veld nodded. He snapped on the lights.

Veld looked angry, which was an emotion Tseng had rarely seen. Tseng opened his mouth to say something. 'S-'

'Shut up,' Veld ordered, coming into the room. He locked the door behind him.

'Vel-'

'I believe I told you,' Veld said, turning, 'to be silent.'

Tseng shook his head. 'I'm acting because I believe that this may turn out to be a necessary augmentation –'

'For what?' Veld growled, coming closer. 'Your pride?' He grabbed Tseng by the tie, and exerted enough force pulling the younger man in that Tseng felt his neck snap backwards. 'Your confidence?'

Veld laughed in Tseng's face, a harsh and staccato sound. 'You wear a tie, not a pair of military fatigues.' He shook Tseng, hard, before he spun Tseng around and slammed his face into the desk. 'Stay,' Veld said, without once raising his voice.

'Si-'

'I said to stay, not to speak,' Veld continued, voice still deceptively calm. He walked around to the other side of Tseng's desk, and opened the drawers. Tseng heard the sound of glass clinking against glass, but did not lift his head to look. He felt the vibration of Veld's footsteps as the man came around behind him.

Silence fell. Tseng could hear the ticking of the clock in the room as it did a round. He counted sixty. Ninety. 'Veld, sir.'

'Is it so difficult to obey a simple order?' was the response Tseng received.

Tseng went mute. Sixty. Ninety. Hundred and twenty. Hundred and eighty. He felt his back scream with the sensation of being left totally open. His spine curved, a spasm going through him once every few moments as he fought the urge to turn, to look, to move.

Tseng jumped when the syringes came crashing down next to his face two hundred and forty seconds in; Veld was suddenly there behind him to push his face back against the tabletop. The glass went everywhere, some of it cutting across his cheek as he snapped his eyes closed. The smell of refined Mako permeated the air, sickly and strong, and when Tseng looked he could see the green glow just a few centimetres away.

'You were going to put that into yourself,' Veld said, conversationally. Fingers tightening in Tseng's hair, he dragged his Turk closer to the shattered remains of Hojo's medicine. 'Look at it.'

Tseng bit his tongue. He looked.

'Now,' Veld said, 'lick it.'

Tseng went deadly still.

Veld's grip did not tighten. He did not push Tseng. He did not speak. Fear built like lactic acid in Tseng's limbs; every part of him screamed. Thirty. Sixty. Ninety. Breathing hard, Tseng extended his tongue. It rasped against the table, drawing up the liquid Mako and when he drew it back into his mouth to swallow –

Veld snapped his head back and pulled Tseng fully upright with terrifying strength before crushing his mouth to the younger man's and drawing Tseng's tongue into his own, sucking – and Tseng didn't know what to do or how to react or what to say – didn't have a chance to, before Veld pushed him away and turned his head and spat out the Mako onto the floor. Veld wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then spat again before cornering Tseng against the wall and saying, 'Do I have to outline this lesson for you as well?'

'No, sir,' Tseng said, paralysed. Veld kicked his legs apart.

'Do I need to tell you why you're allowed to wear this tie?' Veld asked as he pulled said item of clothing away from Tseng's neck.

'No, sir,' Tseng said.

'Do I need to give you instructions to follow for when to obey and not to obey?' Veld growled, and he didn't bother with Tseng's shirt – he spun the man and went for Tseng's belt. 'Do I have to inform you how to use the intelligence you were gifted with?'

'No, sir,' Tseng said, pressing his forehead against the wall.

'Give me one excuse, Tseng. I am not even asking for a _reason_ ,' Veld snarled as he stripped the leather off of Tseng's hips and threw it on the floor. He pulled at the zip of Tseng's pants.

'SOLDIER is physically stronger than us,' Tseng said, pushed beyond the point of stammering. 'They hold grudges, have company support from both the Science and Presidential departments, can serve as figureheads in ways Turks will never be able to and have the resources at hand to infiltrate every department by force - _fuck_ ,' he swore, when he felt Veld push his slacks past his knees.

'And so you thought to use the toys that Hojo so conveniently put in your hand?' Veld snapped, putting his hand flat on the wall beside Tseng's head and using the other to dig marks into Tseng's upper thigh.

'Considering the options, _sir_ , yes,' Tseng gasped, attempting to turn and awash with shame.

Veld slapped Tseng's face right into the wall, and then he reached around and grabbed Tseng by his cock and _pulled_ so hard that Tseng snarled with pain; it wasn't pleasurable. He waited for Tseng to catch his breath before he yanked again, and harder, and let Tseng collapse backwards into him before pushing Tseng bodily against the wall. Then Veld said: 'You stay away from Mako, Tseng, that is what you do. And if SOLDIER beats you into the ground then you damned well _stay_ down and let them break in your ribs or your teeth. I don't care what you look like when you stand up; I don't care if the uniform ends up muddied or ripped - at least the Turk that comes back up on his feet is going to be a human being - and if you _don't_ come up afterwards, then at least you've died with some dignity, instead of as a forsaken labrat unable to think, use tactics, or _adapt_ to the fucking situation at hand. Do I make myself clear?'

Tseng, heaving, clawed at the wall with his hand once, twice, before saying, 'Yes, sir.'

'Good,' Veld growled. He stepped back, wiped his hands on his pants leg, and let Tseng drop to his knees. 'Now get your clothes back on, and clean the mess off of your table. You're not going to Wutai.'

Tseng knew better than to speak.

Veld waited for him to dress before he nodded and said, 'Come here.' He held Tseng's tie in his hand.

Tseng went. He did not bow his head. He looked Veld in the eye. He did not flinch when his collar was flipped up or when Veld threaded the silk about his neck. 'Humiliation you can wash off,' Veld said, voice low. 'Shame you can wear for a while, and then discard when you have outgrown it. But what the Science department offers is a death sentence. And you, or any other Turk, will not accept any death sentence from any man who doesn't wear the suit.' When Veld's knuckles scraped Tseng's skin, Tseng did not grimace. Veld finished the knot, and did not choke Tseng with it afterwards.

'You're going to Junon,' he told the Turk, his Turk, his boy that he needed very badly to grow into everything Tseng was required to be. 'To Junon, and Rufus Shinra, where you're going to learn how to play politics with the best.'


End file.
